Classic Poem

Ye bonny young virgins, though smart is your pace,
Be careful, leave early this fair, don't delay;
For though ye be handsome, and gladsome your face,
'Tis fair senseless nonsense, gin ye pair not straightway.
For old age is a sport, and, in every sort, harm,
Causing loss to her looks, ne'er allowing her charm,
Therefore, don't tarry, but marry apace,
Ere sad ye retire to the byre, your old place.

For beauty is fading, unstaid, on the wing,
Like a gleam of sunbeam on a hill-face sublime,
And though you have riches, a most foolish thing,
If ye heed not your need of this fair at its time.
When you want, you'll repent, but they shan't marry you,
Gossips say, she is grey, not a man looks her way,
And ye'll be all forlorn, as ye mourn and bewail,
And you deep melancholy will alway assail.

A thing of dread, a dead-head, isn't an ugly old maid?
An old miser unprized, unwished to be kissed!
Her face turning wrinkled, her hair a grey shade,
There's a crook in her mouth, in her nose a wry twist.
When she'll whine and repine, she'll have no further cheer,
Not a kiss but she'll miss, and she'll be common gear,
Unrelated, unmated, with no hearth or home,
A dry hag and sorry, sunk in worry and gloom.

The lily, the fairest by far of the flowers,
Though showy its powers, yet short is its stay;
And the beautiful rose of most glorious hue
Bids adieu to its beauty, when flies sultry May.
That's the way with ilk fay, every day growing old,
Till they make their last stake, and the tale is now told;
When beauty deserts them, and passes their bloom,
They'll always bewail that they failed to act soon.